I fumbled for my watch on the bedside table. Four in the morning. I’d been awake since three. Experience told me if I hadn’t yet managed to fall asleep after an hour, it wasn’t happening. My best course of action was to read or sketch for an hour before I tried again.

I slipped out of bed, grabbed my sketchbook, and headed to the screen porch.

The darkness was near absolute, and I took a minute to listen to the night’s sounds. An owl hooted. The same one as before? Leaves rustled. A bird shrieked, and I pitied the small animal clasped in its talons. A breeze tickled my bare arms. Insects and birds and small animals made tiny noises that seemed large in the darkness.

If I turned on the light to sketch, I’d be spotlighted. Anything out there could see me, and I’d be blind.

I put my sketchbook on the table and sank into a chair, brought my knees to my chin, and wrapped my arms around my shins.

What a mess this weekend had turned out to be.

Graham was dead.

The heat was almost unbearable.

People who'd been friends for years were turning on each other.

And some of my favorite people were murder suspects.

Also, I missed Grace. I missed Aggie. I missed Max. I missed an air-conditioner that didn’t sound like a diesel truck without a muffler. I missed Mr. Coffee.

I let my feet fall to the floor and straightened my shoulders. Anarchy would catch the killer and we’d leave. Soon. Hopefully, we’d make it home in time for Sunday dinner.

A crash in the woods stilled the night sounds. Whatever was crashing about came from the direction of Sumner's cabin. And it was big. A wild hog? Those things were dangerous. A second crash brought me to my feet.

I listened. Hard. And heard sobbing.

Sobbing?

“Who's out there?”

“Ellison?” More of a croak than a voice. “Help.”

I rushed into the house, jammed my feet in boots, and poked Anarchy awake. “There's someone out there.”

He blinked and groaned. “What? What time is it?”

“Outside. There’s someone. They need help.”

He pulled a pillow over his head. “You had a dream, sweetheart.”

“No. I was on the screen porch. I heard someone. They said my name and 'help.’”

Anarchy sat up. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts, and collected his gun.

“You think we'll need that?”

“Someone was murdered last night.” He made an excellent point. “We also need a flashlight.”

“There’s one in the drawer by the sink.” I found it and turned toward him. “You can’t go barefoot.”

He put on the Chuck Taylors I hadn’t thrown away, and, together, we stepped onto the front porch and into the night.

“Hello,” I whisper-called.

No one answered.